


Confession

by Aquatics



Category: Original Work
Genre: 19th Century, Character A has never been in love before and so doesn't immediately recognize the feeling, Issues of Faith, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 13:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquatics/pseuds/Aquatics
Summary: There are two churches in Fylke kommun.There’s the normal one, the one one thinks of when the word ‘church’ is uttered. The one where children are baptised, where they sing ‘Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer’ before school ends, the one where they are confirmed as members of the Parish.And then, there is Aaron’s’ church.





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleetSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/gifts).

> Thank you to my beta/Catholicism checker.
> 
> This story takes place in Southern Sweden during the 19th century. 'Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer' is a psalm traditionally sung in schools at the start of summer vacation. 'The Red Letter' is a direct translation of the Swedish title of 'The Scarlet Letter'.
> 
> Sweden had been Lutheran since the 1500's. Catholicism was a crime until 1781. The first Catholics to worship freely were largely German immigrants, and the descendants of such. In 1873, native Swedes were given the right to convert to Catholicism if they so wished, though they were still barred from certain occupations such as teaching, nursing, etc.
> 
> Catholic priests were taught at Uppsala. Uppsala is the Swedish equivalent to Oxford/Cambridge/Harvard.

There are two churches in Fylke kommun.

There’s the normal one, the one one thinks of when the word ‘church’ is uttered. The one where children are baptised, where they sing ‘Den Blomstertid Nu Kommer’ before school ends, the one where they are confirmed as members of the Parish.

And then, there is Aaron’s’ church.

Aaron’s church is different. Not many schoolchildren go there - Some do, like Arne, Laura, the Smitts, and anyone with a German-sounding name. Most visitors are from different villages altogether - Aaron has heard stories of people traveling for hours, just to be able to worship on Sundays.

They’re sitting on the stone fence, counting up wild strawberries, when Johannes tells Aaron about it.

“It seems an awful waste of time, to me.” Johannes rubs the side of his neck, smearing strawberry juice over it. Aaron covers his mouth, chuckling softly. His hair jumps up and down, and Johannes wants to stop it and smooth it against his neck.

“But what if your parents were offered work in, say, Bavaria? You’d have to go just as far to get to the local Protestant church.”

Johannes wrinkles his nose. “Then we’d up and be Catholics, I guess.” He can barely imagine living any place else, and it’s not like anyone would ever feel the need to move that far - His family runs a small farm, and that is that.

Aaron shakes his head. His blond hair flows close to his milky-white shoulders: He has probably never worked a day in his life. The irony, Johannes thinks, that Aaron should be the one with fair colouring - Johannes was born and raised in Blekinge, yet he’s nearly as dark as a southerner. (His mother blames the sun.)

Aaron’s parents hail from Kaifeck (If it weren’t for Aaron, Johannes probably wouldn’t even know where Bavaria was). His hands are long and slender, adjusting a straw hat - He burns too easily, Johannes knows.

“I suppose that is a very Lutheran way to think about things.” Aaron shrugs. “Not that I should be discouraging you, it would be an honour to have you in the fold.” He smiles in that haughty, superior way, making lips plump up just like that. Johannes ponders that priesthood might be wasted on him.

Aaron leaves for Stockholm in the fall. He holds Johannes’ hand all the way to the station, the same way one would clasp the hand of a sibling. The station is cold and yet unpainted. The smoke trills, the train whistles, a press of Aaron’s hand, and summer flickers by for one brief moment, bringing the smoky-grey wood to a cool red shade of ash. It takes half a minute and another train whistle for Aaron to let go - He catches Johannes’ eyes with a longing gaze, waving sadly as the train leaves.

And just like that, it is ended. Johannes turns fifteen, he finishes school. The Karlssons are in need of a farmhand, they agree to take him on. It’s not the most well-paying position, but he is glad to have it. Herr Karlsson has a collection of herbs, his brother in America regularly sends seeds. Some of it goes to Johannes’ crate garden.

Herr Karlsson’s frown is strong and cool. Wrinkles appear at the corner of his eye when he smiles - He has seen the world, or at least ventured far enough from the Parish. He teaches Johannes to write with black-letter script, gently taking Johannes’ hand in his own, moving it along the paper. It takes Johannes some time to learn, because his heart races, and his mind clouds. It is not unlike the time Aaron taught him numbers - It sows a seed of worry in his heart, because this is not the point of learning to write. One is meant to memorise, not linger on the force of another’s hand.

After two weeks with little progress, he asks the village minister for advice. He’s told to study further, and perhaps not put so much time into blackwork, when he should be tending the earth. He returns to Karlsson’s home in a dejected state, asking if there is anything else they can do in the evenings.

”Well, I have a viola.” Herr Karlsson shrugs. ”Might as well get some practise in. Why the long face?”

Johannes swallows. ”I wanted to show them to Aaron.”

”Aaron?”

”A friend from school. He’s Catholic.”

”Oh.” Herr Karlsson nods. ”The clergyman’s son?”

”Yes.” Johannes beams, cheeks flush. ”The one studying in Uppsala.”

”Huh. I figured you might have wanted to learn ’em for some girl. Just goes to show, I guess.” He shrugs, and pours another cup of coffee. ”Well, if you get your thoughts in order, I’ll be happy to teach you again.”

”I will be happy to learn from you again.” Johannes says a little too quickly, because his thoughts are finally in order. His stomach fills with moths.

They flutter and ruin his appetite for weeks, before he comes to accept them as a perpetual fixture of his day-to-day life. Watching the other farmhands toil; One flutter. Touching Herr Karlsson’s hand, five flutters. A letter from Aaron - Two million wingflaps threaten to burst out of his chest. He’s not sure why Aaron still bothers to write; Some part of him worries that Aaron has found closer friends in the clergy, or worse, some girl. There are mentions of one or two companions, a ’Fredrik’ and a ’Gösta’, but they seldom feature as leading men. Most of the letters cover lecturing topics, or how the botanical garden has changed.

Johannes’ letters are more sparse. They cover village gossip, how the garden is doing, and wether the crops will fail or no.

One day, Aaron sends a picture of a group in graduation gowns, himself at the far-right corner. His cheeks have grown sallower, and his arm holds a bible with quiet dignity. This must be what Dinsdale looked like in ’the Red Letter’, tempting and holy and too far away for a mere human to touch. Johannes strokes his finger over the picture, setting fire to his nails. The words ’Returning, Saturday with the 4:15 train’ seals his fate.

Aaron wears a grey travel suit, priest collar adorning his neck like a gold band. A man to be revered and honoured, yet his face lights up at the mere sight of Johannes. Aaron clasps Johannes’ hand, and he knows from that moment on that his fate has been sealed.

”Let me take your bags.” Johannes mumbles, picking them up from where Aaron has left them to rest. Heat lingers on the handle. (It is far healthier than holding Aaron’s hand.)

”Thank you. Gosh, it feels so strange to be working so close to you -” Aaron’s voice has turned to perfect Stockholm dialect. He no longer towers over Johannes; The two are nearly the same height. He smiles softly, one could almost think him humble. Johannes is caught off-guard, embarrassed at the familiarity.

”It’s alright. I’m not even in your parish.”

Aaron looks at him for a split second, and Johannes could swear that there was some mark of sadness on his brow. Finally, he shakes his head. ”I guess not.” He laughs, and there is something insincere about it that Johannes cannot put his finger on.

The road to Aaron’s parent’s estate is short, leaving little room for conversation. Some gossip is caught up on, a trip to Lappland is recounted, and the two must part. As the bag is handed over, Aaron brushes against Johannes’ fingers. A sharp flame whirls through his heart. For a moment, all is white.

The smell of lilac and ”Farewell, friend!” brings him slowly back to the world of the living. He mumbles a soft ’Goodbye, father’, before realising that he would be better off never speaking to Aaron again.

* * *

The days pass. Sunday rears its head.

Johannes is wearing the sunday suit. He is prepared to explain himself; ’I came to see a friend’. See. Hear. Not speak with. Not hold as an idol.

The church door is open, to admit any latecomers. Johannes glances through the crack, and oh - Aaron is standing at the parapet, like an angel in his shroud. He leads the congregation in song, glowing as he smiles over the audience. Johannes’ breath catches in his throught - How could he ever dream of monopolising this? His heart has turned to a stone, weighing heavy in his chest.

Aaron goes finishes up the hymns, then goes on to talk about what the Lord wants from his people, and how they have been rewarded. His voice is soft as silk, despite being amplified by the walls. Johannes enters as quietly as he can, finds a seat at the very back, and listens. Aaron’s soft lilt is like music. The hymns fill the room with quiet worship. It brings a sense of peace to his soul, his very being. This is the correct way to worship - In a room, with others present.

The sermon ends, and Johannes ends up standing around in a corner, hoping that nobody will notice him. They do not, though he’s not certain wether it is out of ignorance or politeness. Either way, he finds himself staying until everyone leaves. Once the voices quiet down, he looks up to see Aaron, sweeping the floor in front of the pews.

”Father, I wish to confess.”

Aaron’s eyes widen. He nods, gently placing the broom aside, cheeks flush with surprise. A short motion towards the confessional, and Johannes enters the small, dark room. It’s surprisingly comforting - Private enough to make one feel truly alone.

”Bless me, father, for I have sinned.” He swallows, expecting a laugh or a sigh. But there is nothing; only a quiet, understanding silence.

”There is a person whom I am close to worshipping.” He mumbles softly. ”I worry that it is turning to idolatry, because every single thing reminds me. Even when I should be praying for the harvest, or attend to the Lord. It’s hard to think of anything else, even thoughts of worship tend to..” He trails off. This is all, it is what he had to say, any further information would be dangerous and unhelpful. His heart beats as if it were a canary.

He hears a clacking of rosary beads. After several minutes, Aaron replies with shaking voice. ”..You were right to confess. That is indeed a very serious matter, and I am glad that you came to speak to me - The Lord, about it.”

More beads clacking.

”Three Hail Marys. That is what the Lord asks of you.”

Johannes takes a deep breath. This is tangible, this is a solution he can live with. He will be forgiven, there will be no hellfire, and he can return to Mr. Karlsson’s farm.

”Thank you, father.”

”Go in peace, my son.”

He exits, waiting for Aaron as he contemplates his options. Aaron arrives with a solemn look on his face, voice unusually sober. ”Are you alright?”

”Yeah. Just seems a bit light for a case of mortal sin.”

”Well, it’s not that unusual. Love comes to us all, sooner or later.” Aaron smiles softly, in his haughty, knowing manner. He is standing right next to Johannes, leaning against the back of the pew. The urge to do something utterly stupid is overwhelmingly strong.

Johannes glances up at Aaron, noticing for the first time how red his cheeks have turned. His eyes are green and inviting, and his mouth - His lips are red like strawberries, matching the flush that extends over his neck, below the white girdle that whispers _Trespassers Take Heed._

Johannes’ fist clenches. He will go home. He will say ten, nay, fifty Hail Marys. And then, he will return to his church, repent, and see Aaron on Sundays perhaps, after church. On weekdays, in the village. Never in private. He grinds his teeth, takes hold of Aaron’s wrist, draws him close, feels him squirm with surprise.

”Johannes, what are you doing?”

The back of his neck is silky and smooth, he smells like lavender and incense, like some biblical king descending from the heavens. Johannes turns him around, without thinking, crushing their lips together.

The world stops. The taste of honey and lingonberries fills his mouth, his hand slides around Aaron’s waist, pinning him close, close enough to share his warmth, feel his heart beat. Aaron answers the kiss with slow, meek motions, body alternately tensing and relaxing. The world has ceased to matter, it is passing them by.

Once it is over, Johannes gently pushes Aaron away, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. Aaron smiles sadly at him, gazing into his eyes with a look of pure, undistilled Aaron.

”I forgive that.” He mumbles, voice trembling. ”But that is all.”

”Yes.” Johannes nods. ”That is all.”And the lilacs bloom as they will, and what has passed is passed.


End file.
